Delta Rain
by S. Faith
Summary: Just after the Enterprise D crashes and burns, a Starfleet social sets the scene for a reunion of sorts. Rated M for adult themes.


**Delta Rain**

Begun March, 2000  
Threads picked up again November 2001  
And again, February 2002  
And again, December 2002  
And again, February & March 2006

By S. Faith

Lyric excerpts by William Topley / The Blessing

* * *

_shake your hair out_

Amongst the fields of faceless, nameless bodies, his steely eyes found that Titian tint. Uniquely hers, that colour; dare he hope for salvation from this purgatory on earth?

His gaze remained fixed on those locks, a stab of vibrant red amongst the dull gray monotone, rather like an abstract artist had decided to add a little visual unrest to an otherwise drab and colorless painting. The perfectly marcelled cascade of brilliant auburn tresses curling softly down to mid-back made for an incredible contrast against her pale white skin; equally did it contrast the black silk dress that sheathed her shapely, willowy form to just above her knees. At first he wasn't even sure if he had really seen her, but there was no mistaking her hair, _her_, so vibrant and alive, as she slowly turned to face in his direction.

Ah yes. Life _was_ worth living again.

For all of her radiance and beauty, however, he saw that she looked rather forlorn, her eyes lethargically scanning the crowd at the gathering. When their eyes met across the crowd, he fancied he actually witnessed the spark of life return.

Without a doubt this had been the dullest Starfleet social he had _ever_ had the pleasure of attending, and that was saying a lot considering not only how many he'd been to during his career at Starfleet, but the depths of mediocrity he'd experienced in the past. The theme was 'Black and White', borrowing liberally from Art Deco, very formal and surprisingly very dull, until he saw _her_; and it was always hard to miss Beverly, long and lean and fluidly elegant in every motion.

She moved without hesitation towards him; his heart leapt into his throat. He knew rationally that it was a very silly reaction to have, but she looked so devastatingly gorgeous, and she was, after all, one of the few people in this world who had unfettered access to the real Jean-Luc Picard. She sighed, placing her long, graceful hand on his tuxedoed forearm in a surprisingly intimate gesture. In a low tone, she said, "I am so _incredibly_ glad to see you here."

He smiled, hoping she hadn't noticed the way the blood had rushed from his face. "I wasn't sure I was even going to come. Up to my ears in paperwork…"

In fact, he'd had no intention of coming at all, until the he'd heard the phrase "Art Deco". It conjured up memories of Beverly, who was fond of the style. Perhaps he'd believed that an evening spent with memories of better times past was much improved over spending it alone. Perhaps a wish taking form was not an old wives' tale after all.

Her eyes did not for a moment stop sparkling, and he found himself nearly mesmerized by them. Her tone was that of relief and effusement: "I am _so_ glad you did. There's no one else here I know, or at least no one I want to spend the evening talking with." She looked around, and then whispered in a conspiratorial tone, close to his ear, the warm breath distracting him momentarily, "I for one am very impressed. I didn't realize Starfleet had gotten so far with their corpse reanimation research."

He laughed abruptly and very loudly, cutting through the low murmuring conversation like a pistol shot. A few in the crowd actually turned to look at him as if expecting to see a smoking revolver in his hand, and he felt the colour creep back up his neck in spades. When the gazes that had lit upon him dispersed, he said quietly to her with a grin, "I can usually count on you for one of two things. To brighten my mood, or to make mischief." He had a third in mind, but it was something he purposefully kept well hidden and protected. On occasions like this it fought very, very hard to break out.

"And which was this?" she asked, arching a brow.

He appeared to be in deep thought for a moment, then answered in all honesty, "Both."

She grinned playfully. "That's me: multitalented."

Jean-Luc Picard was not proud of the thought that raced unbidden through his mind, and he smiled stiffly. Did she have any awareness of the effect she had on him? "Come, shall we get a drink?" He crooked his elbow out, and she threaded her hand through it.

They made their way to the bar, amidst blatant stares of appreciation; he fully cognizant of how stunning they must have appeared together. He could not get over how ravishing she was, could not keep his eyes off of her, looking so very like something out of Dixon Hill's world. He suddenly felt very fortunate to have her company, her full attention.

"Jean-Luc," she began, "You seem rather… distracted." Not that any evidence of panic ever showed externally, he mentally ran through their interactions, wondering where the chink in his armour was. Clearly he wasn't as subtle as he thought he'd been. But she continued. "Is everything all right with you? We haven't spoken in a while."

Completely ignoring his immediate preoccupation, he said, "Everything's fine. All of this – free time and being in one place – is just making me a little stir-crazy. I've missed being in command, and I've missed y— my excellent senior staff."

He thought he felt her step falter, but she was tactful enough to ignore the near slip of his tongue. They sidled up to the counter and each whisked up a waiting glass of champagne.

"_We_ have missed you too, Jean-Luc." Raising her glass to him, she sipped, a playful smirk on her lips.

He did not know precisely what to make of that particular emphasis. Trying to avoid her eyes, he tasted his own drink and found it to be quite good. He once again offered his elbow to her and they began walking arm in arm towards the doors to the grand balcony. It felt so natural to stroll with her like this, even as her hand burned a persistent and unignorable heat on his forearm. He was thankful for his many years of practiced stoicism that allowed him to continue to remain with her like this.

It wasn't until they were three or four paces onto the grand balcony, under the sparkling stars and the benevolent moon, that he drew his brows together. In his excitement to see her, he'd failed to recollect that Beverly should not be on Earth. She was supposed to be halfway across the galaxy.

They came to stand at the broad marble railing, looking out upon the landscape, the cool shades of silvery light transforming it into something ethereal. They spent many moments in companionable silence, until Beverly set down her now-empty champagne flute, and turned to him. "I noticed that quizzical look on your face before, and yes, I'm not supposed to be here. I guess I needed to take a break too, especially after what's happened. I've been far too long without time to myself. To just… relax. Read books for fun. Take long bubble baths."

Such a sight was far too easy to conjure; instead he asked, "Where are you staying?"

She turned back to the landscape, her voice quiet. "The Delta."

He remembered hearing of the bungalow, and smiled warmly. Nestled firmly in the heart of southern Louisiana, positively infested with magnolias, the little place was something she'd received from the Crusher family as part of a legacy from Jack's death. Secluded from civilization as well as from the twenty-fourth century, she did not speak of the place to people she did not consider close friends. Most of what Picard had heard was what seemed a lifetime ago from Jack himself, planned romantic encounters and magical evenings by firelight; during particularly unguarded moments, he'd also heard about it many years later from Beverly's own trembling lips.

His eyes were drawn back to her in her contemplation. The argent rays cast stark shadows upon the angles of her face and the curves of her body, and if not for the scarlet of her hair he might have been convinced he was watching an old black-and-white movie. So many years, their acquaintance, yet the years only added to her appeal. He'd thought her pretty enough when first they met in Jack's company, but now that he knew her as he did, every smile, every glance, every gesture held significance in his heart—

"What, Jean-Luc?"

He realized she was looking at him again with an inquisitive expression, having caught him intently gazing at her. He did not know what to say that would not betray the fact that he was being unexpectedly overwhelmed by feelings for her. He had no idea where they had come from, or rather, why they had chosen this moment to resurface.

He was prepared to offer an outright lie and tell her nothing was wrong when the dull murmur of conversation was expertly sliced by the long, slow, soulful wail of a saxophone.

_and come and dance with me_

Beverly's eyes glowed with a sudden fire, and she reached to clasp his free hand with her own. "Oh Jean-Luc. Please. Let's dance."

His standard answer: "Beverly, you know that I don't dance." At least, that's what he should have said, what he _would_ have said under any other circumstance, but this night he said nothing and allowed himself to be divested of his champagne and gently led to where others had begun dancing in the center of the balcony. He placed his hands upon her slender waist and felt her hands on his arms. She whispered half-jokingly, "I can lead if you want me to."

"That won't be necessary," he replied. It wasn't really the dancing he objected to, for it wasn't as if this less formal style of dancing was terribly complicated or difficult. No, Picard was worried more about the consequences of being in close proximity to her; this was what really fueled his insistence that he didn't dance, and with good reason. As he swayed to the music with her, he willed his hands to stay cemented to that very safe place on each side of her waist.

"Such a lovely night," she said. "I'm having a much better time now that you're here."

"My pleasure. I'd hate to think of you languishing amongst the corpses." At his quip she laughed aloud and ran her fingers across his back, pulling herself closer to him. It became physically impossible to keep his hands in their proper place and he wrapped his arms about her, felt bare skin beneath his hands. He almost lost the cadence of the dance at that very moment.

"I don't know how you ever came to the conclusion you can't dance," she informed him in her most 'professional opinion' voice. He decided not to incriminate himself with an answer. He thought for a moment how amazing it was, the physical intimacy that one could get away with in front of a veritable crowd of people just by playing music and calling it 'dancing'.

She tightened her hold for a moment, hesitated, and then rested her cheek against his. "Don't mind, do you?" she asked quietly. "Doesn't bother you?"

"No." He liked it very much, though some shade of 'bother' could have certainly defined how he was feeling at the moment. Her breath skimmed warmly across his ear, her hands settled on his back in their embrace, and by God she even _smelled_ good, vanilla and amber and sweet spices; soft and warm and oh, nice, so very nice… and for a moment he didn't realize he'd said it aloud.

She did.

"It is, Jean-Luc. _Very_ nice."

He didn't know how it happened, how they had suddenly gone from two close friends joking, socializing, dancing, but there he was, clumsily searching for her mouth with his own, peeling away a thousand instances of denial in a single kiss, holding her more closely than was probably strictly necessary. There was no mistaking her reaction: clearly taken by surprise, though equally clearly it was not unwelcome as she returned the kiss in full.

She pulled away as the crowd around them applauded the end of the song. "_That_ was nice, too," she whispered, stepping back from him. When she met his gaze her eyes were glossy and bright, two azure jewels shining knowingly at him.

He asked, "Shall we continue?" He held out his hand and she took it.

However, rather than another dance, she led him by the hand from the balcony.

_we are lonely with no good need to be_

Shimmering into solid form again, Picard blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dimness surrounding him. He hardly believed that he and Beverly had just skipped out of the Black & White ball to… he dared not think of what, now that they were away from the magical atmosphere of stars, moon, and soft music, a continent away from where they were mere moments ago. Suddenly the gravity of that single kiss hit him hard, as if it were somehow possible that things between could move too fast considering their long history. He would have to be extremely attentive to any cues that would indicate she was having second thoughts.

He felt her hand thread again through the crook of his elbow, and she placed a feather light kiss on his cheek. "This is it," came her smoky voice. No second thoughts here.

The Delta. The scene of many a romantic candlelit night with Jack, and now they were here together after sharing something far beyond a casual kiss. The cottage was how he imagined it might be, nestled amongst the cypress trees and magnolias, each of the lighter blooms a glowing spot under the silver beams. The crosshatched panes of the window glinted like watching eyes as they walked arm in arm towards the front door.

They went inside and she broke away from him to light the lamps, then set a match to the fireplace. He could not see much in the dim light but could tell it was conservatively yet cozily decorated, and Beverly had obviously not been staying here for long, judging by the suitcase still sitting unopened by the front door. She took a seat on the overstuffed couch, ivory brocade with cherrywood legs, and reached her hand out to him, colour and shape flickering in the firelight.

Hesitantly, Jean-Luc sat beside her (which was quite irrational, all things considered) and opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a finger. "There is no need to say anything. No need to talk about this or explain it. We should have just…" The finger moved to his cheek, drawing an invisible line to his jawbone. "…let things happen a long time ago."

He nodded, his own voice low as he spoke. "I don't know what about this evening was so different… it was just the right combination of place, time, and frame of mi—"

She leaned into him, interrupting him before he could analyze it further. "I forbid you," she warned in somber tones, "to question it." Closer and closer still, nothing but the sound of the crackling fire and exhaled breaths. One thin strap from her dress slid down and over her shoulder as she moved and he raised his fingers to trace its path. Her eyes closed and her breath came sharply and quickly, and again their lips were touching, burning, melding, making up for twenty odd years of restrained passions. Back, back, leaning back, until her shoulders rested against the arm of the sofa and the soft blankets there. She tilted her head back with the encouragement of the irresistibly languorous kisses he delivered upon her throat and neck. He felt her voice box vibrating with speech but he did not hear what she said, and he raised his head to find her glittering eyes smiling upon him.

"I said, 'overdressed'," she said huskily.

She slipped out from beneath him. She allowed the second dress strap to slide over her shoulder, and in moments the dress was in a pool about her feet, and soft tongues of firelight were caressing her curves. Beverly looked to him unblinkingly, and upon getting over the fact that he was seeing her clad in nothing but silk underwear he stood to accept her challenge.

Definitely overdressed, he said to himself, as she unbuttoned the jacket of his tuxedo, sliding her hands up his chest and pushing the jacket over his shoulders. A simple tug set the bow tie to collapsing but the shirt buttons seemed to take forever, tiny and one at a time; by the time she got to the bottom she was practically tearing buttons off. The pants, ah the pants, tantalizing fingers briefly hovering near the fastener before undoing it, and the zipper gliding open as the halves were pulled apart, and…

Skin to skin, and suddenly there was no hurry, just loving appreciation of what each was looking at, gentle gliding touches across that which was newly revealed to the other. They stepped closely together, soft hands over the curve of his backside, rougher hands over the small of her back, and their lips met again tenderly. She pulled him backwards and sat once again upon the sofa.

Her smile was seductive and radiant, her hair wild and tousled. She rested back on the sofa once again, never once breaking the connection their eyes made. He sat beside her, grazed his fingers from her ribcage, down her belly to the edge of the silk, and leaned over her for a kiss.

_where the river grows wide to kiss the sea  
floods the delta and lovers eyes can see_

Morning coffee, earthy and piping hot, as he stood blanket-clad on the covered back veranda, watching the gentle flow of the river and the abating rain, still disbelieving that he hadn't awoken alone in his bed in Labarre, the victim of a sadistically cruel dream. Beverly really was there beside him upon his awakening hours ago at dawn, sleeping soundly amidst the linens and pillows of the bed, suffused with early morning sunlight. She looked like she belonged in a Waterhouse painting, not there next to him. It was all he could do to not touch her, not wishing to wake her or to dissolve what surely should have been an illusion.

No illusion, he reminded himself, as he reached behind himself and idly ran his fingertips over a neat set of shallow scratches on his upper back. She had never shown restraint in anything she'd been passionate about, and this was no exception. He didn't mind. They'd make a very fine souvenir of an evening that was a long time in the making.

"Good morning, Jean-Luc." He felt fingers flit along his upstretched forearm.

"Bonjour, chéri."

He turned to her to find her clad only in a silk bathrobe. He set down his cup and gave her a quick kiss, unfurling the blanket and draping it over his shoulders. With her back to him, he enfolded her into his blanketed arms, content to hold her as they took in the beauty of their surroundings. The clouds had begun to dissipate and the glinting sunlight on the water proved an irresistible a distraction for the longtime friends and brand new lovers as they struggled to find exactly the right words to face the next chapter of their long and winding relationship. She'd leaned back into him fully, and when he glanced down he could see a very content smile playing upon her lips. It was very promising.

"I don't know what it was about last night, but I couldn't take my eyes off of you."

He blinked in disbelief; it was as if his thoughts had coalesced then issued forth in her voice. She continued speaking. "You see someone day after day, year after year, and while you never take them for granted, you never really think about the day when things might change." She paused, and when she spoke again her voice crackled with emotion. "And then… then something happens, something _changes_, and you're filled with regret over things you should have done and didn't."

She could have meant one of a million things, as their days were filled with hundreds of routines, people, places and duties, but instinctively he knew what she was referring to: after the return from Kesprytt, when she had unexpectedly left post-dinner after it seemed things might take a turn towards the intimate. "I should have stayed. I _wanted_ to stay. But life was so comfortable the way things were and I didn't want to do anything to ruin that. But now… I realize how foolish I'd been to settle for comfort."

He knew painfully well how she felt.

"Beverly, I thought you said we shouldn't try to explain or question this."

"That was last night when my primary goal was, well, non-intellectual. And frankly, we've spent too much time being intellectual the last twenty years." She closed her eyes. "But it needed saying."

He tightened his embrace. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck, and he placed his lips upon her temple, burying his nose in her hair. He was met with the still-lingering amber vanilla scent, combined with the remnants of woodsmoke from the fire the previous night. It was a fragrance that he would not soon forget. Holding her like this was something he had wanted to do for a very long time, and he told her so.

She turned to face him, tracing a finger along the angular lines of his face, her eyes studiously following the path as if attempting to memorize each line. Quietly she admitted, "I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about such things before. Like this… the morning after."

"That would make two of us, dear Beverly." He paused. "Though I am forced to admit that my thoughts have been more often occupied contemplating the night before."

She raised her eyes to meet his, and her smile took full bloom, though he could swear she flushed pink. As she pulled herself closer again her fingers ran upwards over the tender tracks on his shoulder and she gasped, murmuring apologies and offering her professional services to heal them.

He refused, and she smiled when he told her why.

* * *

Notes: I think I began this after the Enterprise-D went _crash_. Please, don't think of this as songfic, because it's not really. It's more like a fan vid that only I can see in my head. 


End file.
